Behind The Scenes
by Ceara Einin
Summary: Often we only see the final product of a story. The author usually prefers readers to see only the best version. But what happens behind the scenes can be almost as good as the story itself, so this author is putting out some sneak peeks at what happens behind the scenes.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello, world. As it says in the summary, this is going to be a collection of behind-the-scenes one shots. I read something similar in FebruarySong's The Awkward Adventures of Meghan Whimblesby, and when I was in the middle of a block I tried it and had a grand ole' time. So here we are! This is just a fun little thing, in the hopes some of you fellow magical literary unicorns can relate. :)**

* * *

 **In Which Caspian Is Threatened**

"Caspian?" says the author in one of those syrupy tones of impending doom. "Do come here, I have a message for you."

With a bit of a saunter in his step, there approaches the King of Narnia himself, Caspian X the Seafarer. And yet beneath the bravado, a flicker of uncertainty lingers in his eyes. Caspian has, you see, been hollered at, cursed, threatened, and more for the better part of a week or two by this author, and by the Lion he has learned caution.

"A message, say you? Who from?" the king queries, stopping a safe three yards or so from said author. Even from this distance, the dark circles are plain to his eye.

"Why, from a good friend of mine!" says she, with a gleam most wicked upon her visage. "Don't you want to hear what she has to say?"

Now Caspian has not received many messages before, not for this casting. In castings previous, he endured multiple slatherings with ice cream, whipped toppings, and, Aslan save him, the occasional dash of sprinkles from particularly enthusiastic fans. This casting has not, thus far, yielded anything of the sort, but Caspian thinks one can never be too careful when rainbow sprinkles and cherries-on-top are in one's past.

No matter, for the author begins reading the message without waiting for the king's reply.

"She says this, and do listen up, my dear. 'Darn you, Caspian! Behave or I shall be forced to unleash the Mary-Sues upon you! You know how awful that is, and you do not want to endure one of mine. Believe me, she'd make you wish you had never been penned by C.S. Lewis!'"

Now at the first mention of those strange and unusual beasts known as "Mary-Sues," the face of King Caspian became instantly awash in the most ghastly of colors. A veritable white-ish gray, perhaps with a tinge of green around the edges.

"My lady, I hardly think—"

"Tsk tsk!" clicks the author. "I wasn't finished."

The green tinge upon Caspian's face darkens.

"Now then, where was I?" the author clears her throat and begins anew, seemlingly oblivious to the king mere paces away, trembling in his boots. "Ah yes! She also wants me to let you know the following: 'If you do not mend your ways, I can threaten you much more furiously. If that still doesn't work, simply look frightened and scuttle on with what the author wishes you to do. Or Else. I have my ways…'"

It is with a grin most satisfied that the author relaxes into her chair and waggles the slip of paper carrying the message.

"That's all. Any questions?"

King Caspian, Tenth of that name, is, apparently, too busy stuttering and paling at the vehement words of the author's friend.

"Oh and one more thing!"

Lion, what now? Caspian gulps and tries not to turn too much greener.

"I downloaded Soulja Boy. You remember it, don't you? I do believe there's a dance that goes along with it. Wouldn't it be so much fun to learn? After all, you seem to have plenty of spare time."

And so that is how King Caspian of Narnia came to yelp like a frightened pup and slink dutifully back to the special schemes awaiting him. No word has come regarding his Soulja Boy, but we can hope his cooperation was quickly won before it came to such measures.

"I wonder if Nyan Cat would help him…"

* * *

 **Big thank you to wildhorses1492 for inspiring this! Hope you all enjoyed the insanity. :)**


	2. Chapter 2

**Here's another weird thing that I wrote when I couldn't think of anything else to write. Usually stories I've done that don't work out never get mentioned online at all, but I figured you guys might get some amusement out of this. So here we are. This story was part of a 100,000 word Camp NaNoWriMo, so I'm thinking to blame the disaster on sleep deprivation and too much sugar...**

* * *

 **In Which Caspian Finally Learns His Lesson**

"Caspian, you rat!"

Much to the chagrin of her neighbors, our author is, once again, screeching at a most ornery king of Narnia. Caspian is his name, and this Caspian happens to be seated atop the author's desk with arms crossed and a frown upon his most noble visage. King Caspian has kept his perch for the better part of seven days, now going on eight. Why such a display? Well, Caspian has gotten rather impatient of late. The author, you see, promised him a story of magic and spellbinding romance, and Caspian has grown tired of waiting for it.

"I recall, quite clearly, that you promised me TIP, as you call it, within the month," Caspian is saying amid the author's curses and calls to Tash. "Yet lo and behold, no story is before me."

The author stomps her foot in a most unladylike fashion and hurls a spoonful of chocolate ice cream at the offensive king.

"I never said within the month, you dingus!" she screams as Caspian dodges the frozen treat with ease. "At least let me finish one story with your royal arse in it."

Caspian spares a glance at the chocolate now oozing its way down the wall behind him. "I grow tired of your schemes. Three years you've kept me in this thing you call 'Moonrose.' That Cinderella nonsense you constantly babble about sounds infinitely more interesting."

"I don't care what _you_ find interesting, you stubborn git! _I_ am the author, it's your job to listen to _me_. _Not_ the other way around." Said author gesticulates frantically with her chocolate-doused spoon before plopping down into her chair with a melodramatic sigh. "In any case, you'll get TIP in a month. But not before I finish Finding Eden."

Caspian shrugs, scooting over to allow the ice cream to continue melting down the wall without the interference of his shirt sleeve.

"And I suppose if you fail to finish Finding Eden, TIP will be put on hold indefinitely?"

The author eats one, two, three spoonfuls of her ice cream without looking at him. "It's not your job to worry about my stories. Now get down and go back on set with Rosamar! She's already been whining about Darin's demise and I am in no mood to deal with both of you."

Fortunately for his safety, Caspian recognizes the futility of arguing with this strange, wild creature that calls herself The Author and returns to set as instructed. But perhaps his stubbornness did him well, for the author began her writing event with the story Caspian had been pestering her for. All seemed to be well.

* * *

One week after the start of the author's writing event, all is the opposite of well. All has imploded into a veritable disaster of plot holes, trite dialogue, and hideously unrecognizable characters. Caspian slinks into the author's office with his figurative tail tucked firmly between his legs, bruised and pale from his week-long ordeal in the story he asked for so persistently.

Without a word, he plods to the couch behind the writer's desk, pushing aside half-empty pizza boxes and dirty laundry to make a space to sit. The author is slumped over her desk, hair wild and eyes red. She does not acknowledge him as he enters, nor as the clatter of pizza boxes echoes in the small room. She lets out a single groan, but it seems to be directed at the pile of notebooks surrounding her rather than at the entrance of Caspian.

"You were right," he says.

The author doesn't move, but Caspian can just barely make out her mumble. "I told you," she says, voice cracking. "I told you and you wouldn't listen. I hate you."

Caspian has no defense for himself. His face scrunches up at the mere thought of TIP, and he retrieves a slightly stale slice of pizza from the nearest box. "Finding Eden, then?"

Papers rustle as the writer bobs her head up and down, very slowly. "I'll finish that overdue chapter. Then we'll move on to a different story and never speak of _that other one_ again."

Caspian bites into the stiff pizza, grimacing at the taste of mushrooms. "As you wish."

The author finally lifts her head from her desk, looking more like a close relative of Tash than a young woman. "Meanwhile, go and meet Hallie. She's new. You'll be getting to know each other really well."

"No more fairy tales, yes?" Caspian looks very much like he's just bitten into a persimmon, and makes no attempt to look any different.

"No more fairy tales," the author promises. She straightens just enough to grab the nearest notebook and pencil and begins to scribble half-heartedly.

Caspian takes that as his dismissal cue. He leaves, tossing the rest of the pizza slice into the trash can by the author's desk that's currently overflowing with candy wrappers and tea bags. He can only hope this Hallie has no knowledge of any fairy tales whatsoever, most especially Cinderella.

* * *

 **So fun story about TIP, the story that didn't work out. I wrote it in a week for Camp NaNo, finished it during a 24-hour writing marathon. (Yes, I wrote for 24 hours straight. No, I don't recommend it.) I was supposed to finish Finding Eden in the first week, but I made the last-minute decision to write TIP first instead. Rose and Caspian had been badgering me for a romance story about them, and I finally gave in. And now I'm sitting back and doing some strange mixture of cackling and cringing because I was right and it sooooo did not work. For once, I was right and my characters were wrong. And now I have a truly awful 38,000 word story sitting on my hard drive, waiting to be printed out and burned in a trash can because it's honestly that bad.**

 **Happy writing, guys! :) Have you ever thrown out an entire story?**


	3. Chapter 3

**Here's another sneak peek at TIP, which has been a right foul beast ever since I wrote in July. It's still not good, but it's something a little bit workable. I just had to indulge Rose and Caspian, especially with Morelia's events looming...the darling rats. Enjoy these strange shenanigans from the writer's room! If you'd like to listen to ridiculous music while reading, I recommend the can-can. Most of this piece was written to it. :)**

* * *

 **In Which Caspian Is Right**

On a dark and stormy July afternoon, we join our author once more. She sits among stacks of boxes at a new desk, having just moved to a new home. Her characters are quarantined to separate corners each, ordered not to speak to each other lest she have another horrid idea about two of them falling in love.

"Rose?"

At the call of her creator, Rosamar stands from her corner in the kitchen and navigates around a stack of pots and pans that have yet to find a place in the cabinets.

"Rose!" screeches the author, her voice echoing around a precarious stack of linens.

"Right here, Ceara," Rose answers with a noble attempt at patience. Rose in particular has endured much abuse in the past weeks, though not quite as much as Caspian. After starring in what the author deemed the "worst story ever to be shat out of a keyboard," the two of them had dodged various notebooks, crumpled pieces of outlines, and even the occasional soda can whenever the author lost her patience. And lately that was a daily, if not hourly, occurrence.

"Humor me this," the author begins, hands twitching over the keyboard. "Assume _that story_ was not the worst thing of my entire useless career. Suppose there might be a way or two to fix it up, add a shine over the garbage slime as it were. Where would you start?"

Before our cautious, embittered heroine can reply, another voice rings out from the corner directly to the right of the author's desk. "Best not answer, Rose! She has a soda can at the ready."

Said soda can, crushed for good measure, is pelted at the head of King Caspian, who yelps and falls silent once more.

"There," chirps a frighteningly cheerful author. "No more soda can."

Rose wets her lips and forces a smile past the grimace her mouth wishes to twist into. "Perhaps the first chapter would be a good starting point. I seem to remember a few...inconsistencies."

"Yes yes, a wonderful idea!" Yet for all her enthusiasm of her words, the author stares down Rose as if waiting for a mouse to walk into its trap. "What about the ball scene? I can't seem to make up my mind about that."

Now Rose is no fool - she knows well that the ball was inspired by the author's favorite album and that to offer critique - even when asked - would end in banishment to the laundry room for a solid two weeks at least. And besides, said author also killed off Rose's husband. Technically, they were only husband and wife in the story, but Rose does miss sweet, reasonable Darin quite often. He was exceptionally good at easing the author's particularly vicious bouts of insanity.

"It's a lovely scene," Rose says at length, painfully mindful of the second empty soda can a mere reach away from her tormenter. "I wouldn't like to see it go."

The author claps her hands and shimmies further into her chair, with a grin far too akin to the Cheshire Cat. "When I get those hairless cats, I'll be sure they never annoy you."

* * *

Hours of furious typing and scribbling ensue, leaving Rose and Caspian and the rest of the minimal cast very much on their own. Rose takes the opportunity to sneak her brother (in the story) out from the laundry room - he's been banished there for the better part of a fortnight. The poor fool suggested his character be cut from TIP, and the author had thrown a fit to end worlds.

Medias probably wanted nothing more than an end to his subjection to the neurotic whims of the author, but he was too new to realize what a disaster suggesting such a major change would be.

"Caspian, might I have a word? Rose, you come too." The voice calling from the great beyond of abused keyboards squeaks, speaking with something akin to regret.

This is it then. TIP will be officially scrapped. Rose and Caspian will have to ignore their curiosity about how a love story would play out between them, forever. They're missing out on quite a few spectacularly awkward friendship-building moments, Rose is sure.

Just the same, Rose and Caspian dutifully trod over to the author, prepared for the worst. Though the first run of that story had been rather rough and painful, they'd both hoped for improvements that would bring it into the light of day.

They stop beside the desk, waiting with bated breath. If TIP is banished to the netherworld of unusable stories, Morelia will be their last time working together.

"To Tash with it. Caspian, Rose, you might have had a point." The author clears her throat and brushes tangled hair off her forehead. "That awful story might be worth something after all. I'm going to rework it."

Rose freezes in disbelief, sure she must have heard incorrectly. The author, admitting she was wrong? Such a thing hasn't happened since 2011. It's a legend among the characters: one of them, Nikki, rose up in utter defiance and forced herself into a story she had been written out of. The author had ditched ten pages of outlines to accommodate, all because Nikki wouldn't be bullied into anything else. Now Rose turns to Caspian, whose dawning jubilance is truly a sight to behold.

"You've done it, Caspian," Rose whispers with all due reverence. "You've changed her mind."

The author smiles indulgently, a rare sight.

At once, Caspian jumps into the air in a manner most unkingly and undignified. "Fellow characters, gather round! History has been made this night and we shall celebrate as kings! Pour the wine, cook the ham, let fruits and sweets rain from the sky! This I Promise has been accepted by our dear author."

Utterly embarrassed, the author hides her face in her arms, nose to the graciously silent desk. When cheers rise from the cast of the officially green-lighted story, she scoops loose papers and notebooks over her head.

The story shall go on, and she has much work to do. While her obstinate, darling characters celebrate, she must begin the revision process.

"Goodbye, o glorious sleep," she mumbles. "I never liked you overmuch anyways."

* * *

 **And wrap! TIP should be out in the late spring of next year, if any of you are looking to read it. :)**

 **Have any of you ever scrapped a story idea, or resurrected one from the dead? How did it go?**


	4. Chapter 4

**My brain just won't stop...I started the night determined to finish a months-overdue Morelia chapter. This is what came out of my keyboard...  
**

 **For the record, this was not for TIP.** **This session was for the other new story that's coming up in a few months, the tentatively-titled Rescue Me. And yes, this actually happened, but with a bit more colorful language and no actual bleach because, you know, health and safety.**

* * *

 **In Which Sheep Do Awkward Things**

It was a beautiful night - clear and crisp, the perfect preview of autumn weather to come. The small apartment that will be our setting for this short tale smelt of spices and apples, and pumpkin muffins, freshly baked, were cooling in the kitchen. 'Twas the most pleasant night in a several months.

And yet the peace of autumn spices and moonlit windows is broken by a strange utterance...

"Oh my sweet baby Spartans, they will NOT have sexual relations with sheep!"

We return once more to our strange author, who sits enthroned on her unmade bed with a solitary notebook in her lap and a new story-boarding companion perched beside her.

"I mean, at least I didn't say pigs," answers this new companion, looking very un-ashamed of himself.

The author throws her half-chewed pencil at him. "Oh so now we're talking about pigs? Great, we'll just throw in a few cows and horses for good measure, if you're determined to have farm animals in the story!" The author rubs her temples and wishes very much for a pumpkin muffin. "How did we get here from 'Okay, so she's screwing Caspian'?"

The companion shrugs. "Well, you have to admit it's original." He takes a healthy swig of a red Merlot, and the only reason the author does not strike it from his hand is because the red wine would stain her carpets horribly.

"All right, from now on no drinking and planning. It just isn't working for me."

"You could almost do a dissertation on that!" Our writer's companion, apparently, just doesn't know when to shut his mouth. "Think about it! Asking a professor about primary sources on goat-relations would be legendary."

The author's head falls forward onto the notebook in her lap and she groans. Words fail her, and now the only picture she has in her mind is of far too many goats in much too awkward situations. Though she has been known to be a bit...short-tempered with her characters, surely she doesn't deserve this? Dear, sweet, spunky Adelina definitely doesn't deserve to be pictured in such strange circumstances.

"That's it," the author moans. "I need to bleach my brain."

* * *

One would think that perhaps the situation would improve from there. After all, how much worse could such a conversation get? Well, dear reader, for the most part it did improve. But as wine is wont to do, the Merlot flowed liberally from its bottle, and after the strange discussion of sheep and even stranger acts the author and her companion were once more derailed from their plotting and planning.

"Seriously though, she shouldn't go. She's literally useless with anything sharp," the author says, tapping her pen against her knee.

Her companion, grinning like a fool from the wine she has so generously bestowed, winks a most suggestive wink. Said wink earns him a smack of the notebook upon his arm.

"No," the author grumbles. "You stop all that right now. And besides _that_ isn't sharp."

The plotting companion swirls his wine in his cup and twirls an imaginary mustache.

The author grumbles. "Seriously now, what the blasted bloody booger is she doing while the rest of them are trouncing off to Miraz's castle? Bonding with Lucy? Meeting some Narnians? Swinging a sword? Tap dancing to Cotton Eyed Joe?"

"How about singing?" says companion, who shall hither more be referred to as the Idea Man.

"Singing?" the author deadpans. "Singing. Like what? Gangnam Style? Maybe some angsty Adele?"

At this point, the Idea Man sets down his mostly-empty wine glass and sits up straight. After a melodramatic clearing of his throat, the Idea Man belts out a verse the author has never heard before.

"I'm up in the castle, you're a dirty asshole!" he chants, for such reasons as the author is not privy to.

This Idea Man can be an odd little beast.

The author massages her forehead, pinching the bridge of her nose when the chanting continues. "That's literally useless. She's not in the castle, remember? And why did you have to bring up dirty assholes minutes after we talked about sheep in compromising positions?"

Amazingly enough, though the author swore she scrubbed her entire head with bleach afterwards, this unusual plotting session bore magnificent fruit, in the form of a truly wonderful outline for one of the author's new stories. And not one sheep was involved, thank the Lion. One can be sure Adelina and Caspian were the most relieved of all.

* * *

 **There you have it, a very weird sneak peek at the other new story lurking about on my hard drive. I can promise there are no questionable scenes with sheep in it.**


End file.
